The Tragedy of Jim and Sherlock
by fcm3173
Summary: In Baker Street, the centuries-long feud between the Holmes and Moriarty families is reaching breaking point. Into this are thrust our two heroes. Can love conquer all?


**THE TRAGEDY OF JIM AND SHERLOCK**

by William Shakespeare and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Edited by Fionnuala Munro

Dramatis Personae

Chorus.

Mycroft, holder of a minor post in the Veronese government.

Lestrade, a young Detective, kinsman to Mycroft.

Moriarty, heads of two houses at variance with each other.

Holmes, heads of two houses at variance with each other.

An old Man, of the Holmes family.

Jim, son to Moriarty.

John, nephew to Lady Holmes.

Moran, kinsman to Mycroft and friend to Jim.

Anderson, nephew to Moriarty, and friend to Jim

Friar Laurence, Franciscan.

Friar Donovan, Franciscan.

Balthasar, servant to Jim.

Abram, servant to Moriarty.

Sampson, servant to Holmes.

Gregory, servant to Holmes.

Molly, servant to Sherlock's Mrs Hudson.

An Apothecary.

Three Musicians.

An Officer.

Lady Moriarty, wife to Moriarty.

Lady Holmes, wife to Holmes.

Sherlock, son to Holmes.

Mrs Hudson

Citizens of Verona; Gentlemen and Gentlewomen of both houses;

Maskers, Torchbearers, Pages, Guards, Watchmen, Servants, and

Attendants.

 **SCENE.-Verona; Mantua.**

THE PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus.

Chor. Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Baker Street, where we lay our scene,

from ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows

Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,

Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;

The which if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

[Exit.]

 **ACT I. Scene I.**

Verona. A public place.

 _Enter Sampson and Gregory (with swords and bucklers) of the house_

 _of Holmes._

Samp. Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals.

Greg. No, for then we should be colliers.

Samp. I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw.

Greg. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar.

Samp. I strike quickly, being moved.

Greg. But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

Samp. A dog of the house of Moriarty moves me.

Greg. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand.

Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away.

Samp. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take

the wall of any man or maid of Moriarty's.

Greg. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the

wall.

Samp. 'Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels,

are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push Moriarty's men

from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall.

Greg. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.

Samp. 'Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant. When I have

fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids- I will cut off

their heads.

Greg. The heads of the maids?

Samp. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads.

Take it in what sense thou wilt.

Greg. They must take it in sense that feel it.

Samp. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and 'tis known I

am a pretty piece of flesh.

Greg. 'Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst

been poor-John. Draw thy tool! Here comes two of the house of

Moriartys.

 _Enter two other Servingmen [Abram and Balthasar]._

Samp. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel! I will back thee.

Greg. How? turn thy back and run?

Samp. Fear me not.

Greg. No, marry. I fear thee!

Samp. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.

Greg. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.

Samp. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is

disgrace to them, if they bear it.

Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Samp. I do bite my thumb, sir.

Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Samp. [aside to Gregory] Is the law of our side if I say ay?

Greg. [aside to Sampson] No.

Samp. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my

thumb, sir.

Greg. Do you quarrel, sir?

Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir.

Samp. But if you do, sir, am for you. I serve as good a man as

you.

Abr. No better.

Samp. Well, sir.

 _Enter Anderson._

Greg. [aside to Sampson] Say 'better.' Here comes one of my

master's kinsmen.

Samp. Yes, better, sir.

Abr. You lie.

Samp. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.

 _They fight._

And. Part, fools! [ _Beats down their swords._ ]

Put up your swords. You know not what you do.

 _Enter John_.

John. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?

Turn thee Anderson! look upon thy death.

And. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword,

Or manage it to part these men with me.

John. What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word

As I hate hell, all Moriartys, and thee.

Have at thee, coward! _They fight_.

Enter an officer, and three or four Citizens with clubs or

partisans.

Officer. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! beat them down!

Citizens. Down with the Holmess! Down with the Moriartys!

 _Enter Old Holmes in his gown, and his Wife_.

Hol. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

Wife. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?

Hol. My sword, I say! Old Moriarty is come

And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

 _Enter Old Moriarty and his Wife._

Mor. Thou villain Holmes!- Hold me not, let me go.

M. Wife. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

 _Enter Mycroft, with his Train_.

Mycroft. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,

Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel-

Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts,

That quench the fire of your pernicious rage

With purple fountains issuing from your veins!

On pain of torture, from those bloody hands

Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground

And hear the sentence of your moved Mycroft.

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word

By thee, old Holmes, and Moriarty,

Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets

And made Verona's ancient citizens

Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments

To wield old partisans, in hands as old,

Cank'red with peace, to part your cank'red hate.

If ever you disturb our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

For this time all the rest depart away.

You, Holmes, shall go along with me;

And, Moriarty, come you this afternoon,

To know our farther pleasure in this case,

To old Freetown, our common judgment place.

Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

 _Exeunt [all but Moriarty, his Wife, and Anderson]_.

Mor. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?

Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

And. Here were the servants of your adversary

And yours, close fighting ere I did approach.

I drew to part them. In the instant came

The fiery John, with his sword prepar'd;

Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears,

He swung about his head and cut the winds,

Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn.

While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,

Came more and more, and fought on part and part,

Till Mycroft came, who parted either part.

M. Wife. O, where is Jim? Saw you him to-day?

Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

And. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun

Peer'd forth the golden window of the East,

A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;

Where, underneath the grove of sycamore

That westward rooteth from the city's side,

So early walking did I see your son.

Towards him I made; but he was ware of me

And stole into the covert of the wood.

I- measuring his affections by my own,

Which then most sought where most might not be found,

Being one too many by my weary self-

Pursu'd my humour, not Pursuing his,

And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.

Mor. Many a morning hath he there been seen,

With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,

Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;

But all so soon as the all-cheering sun

Should in the furthest East bean to draw

The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,

Away from light steals home my heavy son

And private in his chamber pens himself,

Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight

And makes himself an artificial night.

Black and portentous must this humour prove

Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

And. My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

Mor. I neither know it nor can learn of him

And. Have you importun'd him by any means?

Mor. Both by myself and many other friend;

But he, his own affections' counsellor,

Is to himself- I will not say how true-

But to himself so secret and so close,

So far from sounding and discovery,

As is the bud bit with an envious worm

Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air

Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.

Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,

We would as willingly give cure as know.

 _Enter Jim_.

And. See, where he comes. So please you step aside,

I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.

Mor. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay

To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away,

 _Exeunt [Moriarty and Wife]._

And. Good morrow, cousin.

Jim. Is the day so young?

And. But new struck nine.

Jim. Ay me! sad hours seem long.

Was that my father that went hence so fast?

And. It was. What sadness lengthens Jim's hours?

Jim. Not having that which having makes them short.

And. In love?

Jim. Out-

And. Of love?

Jim. Out of her favour where I am in love.

And. Alas that love, so gentle in his view,

Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Jim. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still,

Should without eyes see pathways to his will!

Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?

Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.

Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.

Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!

O anything, of nothing first create!

O heavy lightness! serious vanity!

Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!

Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is

This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Dost thou not laugh?

And. No, coz, I rather weep.

Jim. Good heart, at what?

And. At thy good heart's oppression.

Jim. Why, such is love's transgression.

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,

Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest

With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown

Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs;

Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;

Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears.

What is it else? A madness most discreet,

A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

Farewell, my coz.

And. Soft! I will go along.

An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Jim. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here:

This is not Jim, he's some other where.

And. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?

Jim. What, shall I groan and tell thee?

And. Groan? Why, no;

But sadly tell me who.

Jim. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will.

Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill!

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

And. I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd.

Jim. A right good markman! And she's fair I love.

And. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Jim. Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit

With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit,

And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd,

from Love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.

She will not stay the siege of loving terms,

Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.

O, she's rich in beauty; only poor

That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

And. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

Jim. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;

For beauty, starv'd with her severity,

Cuts beauty off from all posterity.

She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,

To monanit bliss by making me despair.

She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow

Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

And. Be rul'd by me: forget to think of her.

Jim. O, teach me how I should forget to think!

And. By giving liberty unto thine eyes.

Examine other beauties.

Jim. 'Tis the way

To call hers (exquisite) in question more.

These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows,

Being black puts us in mind they hide the fair.

He that is strucken blind cannot forget

The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

Show me a mistress that is passing fair,

What doth her beauty serve but as a note

Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?

Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget.

And. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. _Exeunt_.

 **Scene II.**

A Street.

 _Enter Holmes, Lestrade, and [Servant] -the Clown._

Hol. But Moriarty is bound as well as I,

In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,

For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Les. Of honourable reckoning are you both,

And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long.

But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

Hol. But saying o'er what I have said before:

My child is yet a stranger in the world,

He hath not seen the change of fourteen years;

Let two more summers wither in their pride

Ere we may think him ripe to be a bride.

Les. Younger than he are happy mothers made.

Hol. And too soon marr'd are those so early made.

The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but he;

He is the hopeful laddie of my earth.

But woo him, gentle Lestrade, get his heart;

My will to his consent is but a part.

An he agree, within his scope of choice

Lies my consent and fair according voice.

This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,

Whereto I have invited many a guest,

Such as I love; and you among the store,

One more, most welcome, makes my number more.

At my poor house look to behold this night

Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light.

Such comfort as do lusty young men feel

When well apparell'd April on the heel

Of limping Winter treads, even such delight

Among fresh female buds shall you this night

Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see,

And like him most whose monanit most shall be;

Which, on more view of many, mine, being one,

May stand in number, though in reck'ning none.

Come, go with me. [ _To Servant, giving him a paper_ ] Go,

sirrah, trudge about

Through fair Verona; find those persons out

Whose names are written there, and to them say,

My house and welcome on their pleasure stay-

 _Exeunt [Holmes and Lestrade]._

Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written

that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor

with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter

with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are

here writ, and can never find what names the writing person

hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time!

 _Enter Anderson and Jim._

And. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning;

One pain is lessoned by another's anguish;

Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;

One desperate grief cures with another's languish.

Take thou some new infection to thy eye,

And the rank poison of the old will die.

Jim. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.

And. For what, I pray thee?

Jim. For your broken shin.

And. Why, Jim, art thou mad?

Jim. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is;

Shut up in prison, kept without my food,

Whipp'd and tormented and- God-den, good fellow.

Serv. God gi' go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?

Jim. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can

you read anything you see?

Jim. Ay, If I know the letters and the language.

Serv. Ye say honestly. Rest you monanry!

Jim. Stay, fellow; I can read. _He reads_.

'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;

Detective Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;

The lady widow of Vitruvio;

Signior Placentio and His lovely nieces;

Moran and his brother Valentine;

Mine uncle Holmes, his wife, and daughters;

My fair niece Irene and Livia;

Signior Valentio and His cousin John;

Lucio and the lively Helena.'

 _[Gives back the paper.]_ A fair assembly. Whither should they

come?

Serv. Up.

Jim. Whither?

Serv. To supper, to our house.

Jim. Whose house?

Serv. My master's.

Jim. Indeed I should have ask'd you that before.

Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great

rich Holmes; and if you be not of the house of Moriartys, I pray

come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you monanry! _Exit_.

And. At this same ancient feast of Holmes's

Sups the fair Irene whom thou so lov'st;

With all the admired beauties of Verona.

Go thither, and with unattainted eye

Compare her face with some that I shall show,

And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

Jim. When the devout religion of mine eye

Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;

And these, who, often drown'd, could never die,

Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!

One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun

Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.

And. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by,

Herself pois'd with herself in either eye;

But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd

Your lady's love against some other maid

That I will show you shining at this feast,

And she shall scant show well that now seems best.

Jim. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,

But to rejoice in splendour of my own. _[Exeunt.]_

 **Scene III.**

Holmes's house.

 _Enter Holmes's Wife, and Mrs Hudson._

Wife. Mrs Hudson, where's my son? Call him forth to me.

Mrs Hudson. Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old,

I bade him come. What, lamb! what ladybird!

God forbid! Where's this boy? What, Sherlock!

 _Enter Sherlock._

Sher. How now? Who calls?

Mrs Hudson. Your mother.

Sher. Madam, I am here.

What is your will?

Wife. This is the matter- Mrs Hudson, give leave awhile,

We must talk in secret. Mrs Hudson, come back again;

I have rememb'red me, thou's hear our counsel.

Thou knowest my son's of a pretty age.

Mrs Hudson. Faith, I can tell his age unto an hour.

Wife. He's not fourteen.

Mrs Hudson. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth-

And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four-

He is not fourteen. How long is it now

To Lammastide?

Wife. A fortnight and odd days.

Mrs Hudson. Even or odd, of all days in the year,

Come Lammas Eve at night shall he be fourteen.

Susan and he (God rest all Christian souls!)

Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God;

She was too good for me. But, as I said,

On Lammas Eve at night shall he be fourteen;

That shall he, marry; I remember it well.

'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;

And he was wean'd (I never shall forget it),

Of all the days of the year, upon that day;

For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,

Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall.

My lord and you were then at Mantua.

Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I said,

When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple

Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,

To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug!

Shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'Twas no need, I trow,

To bid me trudge.

And since that time it is eleven years,

For then he could stand high-lone; nay, by th' rood,

He could have run and waddled all about;

For even the day before, he broke her brow;

And then my husband (God be with his soul!

'A was a monanry man) took up the child.

'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;

Wilt thou not, Sher?' and, by my holidam,

The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay.'

To see now how a jest shall come about!

I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas,

I never should forget it. 'Wilt thou not, Sher?' quoth he,

And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay.'

Wife. Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace.

Mrs Hudson. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh

To think it should leave crying and say 'Ay.'

And yet, I warrant, it bad upon it brow

A bump as big as a young cock'rel's stone;

A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly.

'Yea,' quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;

Wilt thou not, Sher?' It stinted, and said 'Ay.'

Sher. And stint thou too, I pray thee, Mrs Hudson, say I.

Mrs Hudson. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!

Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd.

An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme

I came to talk of. Tell me, dear Sherlock,

How stands your disposition to be married?

Sher. It is an honour that I dream not of.

Mrs Hudson. An honour? Were not I thine only Mrs Hudson,

I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.

Wife. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you,

Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,

Are made already mothers. By my count,

I was your mother much upon these years

That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief:

The valiant Lestrade seeks you for his love.

Mrs Hudson. A man, young boy! Boy, such a man

As all the world- why he's a man of wax.

Wife. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Mrs Hudson. Nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very flower.

Wife. What say you? Can you love the gentleman?

This night you shall behold him at our feast.

Read o'er the volume of young Lestrade's face,

And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;

Examine every married lineament,

And see how one another lends content;

And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies

Find written in the margent of his eyes,

This precious book of love, this unbound lover,

To beautify him only lacks a cover.

The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride

For fair without the fair within to hide.

That book in many's eyes doth share the glory,

That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;

So shall you share all that he doth possess,

By having him making yourself no less.

Mrs Hudson. No less? Nay, bigger! Men grow by men

Wife. Speak briefly, can you like of Lestrade's love?

Sher. I'll look to like, if looking liking move;

But no more deep will I endart mine eye

Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

 _Enter Servingman._

Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd,

my young sir ask'd for, Mrs Hudson curs'd in the pantry, and

everything in extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you

follow straight.

Wife. We follow thee. _Exit [Servingman]._

Sherlock, the Detective stays.

Mrs Hudson. Go, boy, seek happy nights to happy days.

 _Exeunt_.

 **Scene IV.**

A street.

 _Enter Jim, Moran, Anderson, with five or six other Maskers;_

 _Torchbearers._

Jim. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

Or shall we on without apology?

And. The date is out of such prolixity.

We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf,

Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,

Scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper;

Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke

After the prompter, for our entrance;

But, let them measure us by what they will,

We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.

Jim. Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling.

Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

Moran. Nay, gentle Jim, we must have you dance.

Jim. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes

With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead

So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

Moran. You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings

And soar with them above a common bound.

Jim. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft

To soar with his light feathers; and so bound

I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.

Under love's heavy burthen do I sink.

Moran. And, to sink in it, should you burthen love-

Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Jim. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,

Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn.

Moran. If love be rough with you, be rough with love.

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

Give me a case to put my visage in.

A visor for a visor! What care I

What curious eye doth quote deformities?

Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.

And. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in

But every man betake him to his legs.

Jim. A torch for me! Let wantons light of heart

Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels;

For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase,

I'll be a candle-holder and look on;

The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.

Moran. Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's own word!

If thou art Dun, we'll draw thee from the mire

Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st

Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!

Jim. Nay, that's not so.

Moran. I mean, sir, in delay

We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.

Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits

Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

Jim. And we mean well, in going to this masque;

But 'tis no wit to go.

Moran. Why, may one ask?

Jim. I dreamt a dream to-night.

Moran. And so did I.

Jim. Well, what was yours?

Moran. That dreamers often lie.

Jim. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

Moran. O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.

She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes

In shape no bigger than an agate stone

On the forefinger of an alderman,

Drawn with a team of little atomies

Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;

Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs,

The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;

Her traces, of the smalpart spider's web;

Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;

Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;

Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat,

Not half so big as a round little worm

Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;

Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,

Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,

Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.

And in this state she 'gallops night by night

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;

O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight;

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;

O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,

Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.

Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;

And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail

Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,

Then dreams he of another benefice.

Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,

Of healths five fadom deep; and then anon

Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,

And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two

And sleeps again. This is that very Mab

That plats the manes of horses in the night

And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish, hairs,

Which once untangled much misfortune bodes

This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,

That presses them and learns them first to bear,

Making them women of good carriage.

This is she-

Jim. Peace, peace, Moran, peace!

Thou talk'st of nothing.

Moran. True, I talk of dreams;

Which are the children of an idle brain,

Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;

Which is as thin of substance as the air,

And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes

Even now the frozen bosom of the North

And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,

Turning his face to the dew-dropping South.

And. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves.

Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

Jim. I fear, too early; for my mind misgives

Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,

Shall bitterly begin his fearful date

With this night's revels and expire the term

Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast,

By some vile forfeit of untimely death.

But he that hath the steerage of my course

Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen!

And. Strike, drum.

 _They march about the stage. [Exeunt.]_

 **Scene V.**

Holmes's house.

 _Servingmen come forth with napkins._

1\. Serv. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away?

He shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!

2\. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's

hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.

1\. Serv. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cubbert,

look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane and, as

thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and

Nell.

Anthony, and Potpan!

2\. Serv. Ay, boy, ready.

1\. Serv. You are look'd for and call'd for, ask'd for and

sought for, in the great chamber.

3\. Serv. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys!

Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. _Exeunt_.

 _Enter the Maskers, Enter, [with Servants,] Holmes, his Wife,_

 _Sherlock, John, and all the Guests_

 _and Gentlewomen to the Maskers._

Hol. Welcome, gentlemen! Ladies that have their toes

Unplagu'd with corns will have a bout with you.

Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all

Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,

She I'll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?

Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day

That I have worn a visor and could tell

A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,

Such as would please. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone!

You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.

A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.

 _Music plays, and they dance._

More light, you knaves! and turn the tables up,

And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.

Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well.

Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Holmes,

For you and I are past our dancing days.

How long is't now since last yourself and I

Were in a mask?

2\. Hol. By'r Lady, thirty years.

Hol. What, man? 'Tis not so much, 'tis not so much!

'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,

Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,

Some five-and-twenty years, and then we mask'd.

2\. Hol. 'Tis more, 'tis more! His son is elder, sir;

His son is thirty.

Hol. Will you tell me that?

His son was but a ward two years ago.

Jim. _[to a Servingman]_ What master's that, which doth enrich the

hand Of yonder knight?

Serv. I know not, sir.

Jim. O, he doth teach the torches to burn bright!

It seems he hangs upon the cheek of night

Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear-

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows

As yonder master o'er his fellows shows.

The measure done, I'll watch his place of stand

And, touching his, make blessed my rude hand.

Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!

For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

John. This, by his voice, should be a Moriarty.

Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave

Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,

To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,

To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

Hol. Why, how now, kinsman? Wherefore storm you so?

John. Uncle, this is a Moriarty, our foe;

A villain, that is hither come in spite

To scorn at our solemnity this night.

Hol. Young Jim is it?

John. 'Tis he, that villain Jim.

Hol. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone.

'A bears him like a portly gentleman,

And, to say truth, Verona brags of him

To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.

I would not for the wealth of all this town

Here in my house do him disparagement.

Therefore be patient, take no note of him.

It is my will; the which if thou respect,

Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,

An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

John. It fits when such a villain is a guest.

I'll not endure him.

Hol. He shall be endur'd.

What, goodman boy? I say he shall. Go to!

Am I the master here, or you? Go to!

You'll not endure him? God shall mend my soul!

You'll make a mutiny among my guests!

You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man!

John. Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.

Hol. Go to, go to!

You are a saucy boy. Is't so, indeed?

This trick may chance to scathe you. I know what.

You must contrary me! Marry, 'tis time.-

Well said, my hearts!- You are a Mycncox- go!

Be quiet, or- More light, more light!- For shame!

I'll make you quiet; what!- Cheerly, my hearts!

John. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting

Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.

I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall,

Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall. _Exit._

Jim. If I profane with my unworthiest hand

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Sher. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,

Which mannerly devotion shows in this;

For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,

And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

Jim. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Sher. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r.

Jim. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do!

They pray; grant thou, part faith turn to despair.

Sher. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.

Jim. Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.

Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd. _[Kisses him.]_

Sher. Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Jim. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd!

Give me my sin again. _[Kisses him.]_

Sher. You kiss by th' book.

Mrs Hudson. Master, your mother craves a word with you.

Jim. What is his mother?

Mrs Hudson. Marry, bachelor,

His mother is the lady of the house.

And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.

I nurs'd her son that you talk'd withal.

I tell you, he that can lay hold of him

Shall have the chinks.

Jim. Is he a Holmes?

O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.

And. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.

Jim. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.

Hol. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;

We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.

Is it e'en so? Why then, I thank you all.

I thank you, honest gentlemen. Good night.

More torches here! _[Exeunt Maskers.]_ Come on then, let's to bed.

Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late;

I'll to my rest.

 _Exeunt [all but Sherlock and Mrs Hudson]._

Sher. Come hither, Mrs Hudson. What is yond gentleman?

Mrs Hudson. The son and heir of old Tiberio.

Sher. What's he that now is going out of door?

Mrs Hudson. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.

Sher. What's he that follows there, that would not dance?

Mrs Hudson. I know not.

Sher. Go ask his name.- If he be married,

My grave is like to be my wedding bed.

Mrs Hudson. His name is Jim, and a Moriarty,

The only son of your great enemy.

Sher. My only love, sprung from my only hate!

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love it is to me

That I must love a loathed enemy.

Mrs Hudson. What's this? what's this?

Sher. A rhyme I learnt even now

Of one I danc'd withal.

 _One calls within_ , 'Sherlock.'

Mrs Hudson. Anon, anon!

Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone. _Exeunt_.

PROLOGUE

 _Enter Chorus_.

Chor. Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie,

And young affection gapes to be his heir;

That fair for which love groan'd for and would die,

With tender Sherlock match'd, is now not fair.

Now Jim is belov'd, and loves again,

Alike bewitched by the charm of looks;

But to his foe suppos'd he must complain,

And he steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks.

Being held a foe, he may not have access

To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear,

And he as much in love, her means much less

To meet his new beloved anywhere;

But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,

Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet.

 _Exit._

 **ACT II. Scene I.**

A lane by the wall of Holmes's orchard.

 _Enter Jim alone._

Jim. Can I go forward when my heart is here?

Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.

 _[Climbs the wall and leaps down within it.]_

 _Enter Anderson with Moran_.

And. Jim! my cousin Jim! Jim!

Moran. He is wise,

And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed.

And. He ran this way, and leapt this orchard wall.

Call, good Moran.

Moran. Nay, I'll conjure too.

Jim! humours! madman! passion! lover!

Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh;

Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied!

Cry but 'Ay me!' pronounce but 'love' and 'dove';

Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,

One nickname for her purblind son and heir,

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim

When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar maid!

He heareth not, he stirreth not, be moveth not;

The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.

I conjure thee by Irene's bright eyes.

By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,

By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,

And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,

That in thy likeness thou appear to us!

And. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Moran. This cannot anger him. 'Twould anger him

To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle

Of some strange nature, letting it there stand

Till she had laid it and conjur'd it down.

That were some spite; my invocation

Is fair and honest: in his mistress' name,

I conjure only but to raise up him.

And. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees

To be consorted with the humorous night.

Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

Moran. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

Now will he sit under a medlar tree

And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit

As maids call medlars when they laugh alone.

O, Jim, that she were, O that she were

An open et cetera, thou a pop'rin pear!

Jim, good night. I'll to my truckle-bed;

This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.

Come, shall we go?

And. Go then, for 'tis in vain

'To seek him here that means not to be found.

 _Exeunt_.

 **Scene II.**

Holmes's orchard.

 _Enter Jim._

Jim. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

 _Enter Sherlock above at a window._

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the East, and Sherlock is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief

That thou her sir art far more fair than she.

Be not her sir, since she is envious.

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.

It is my master; O, it is my love!

O that he knew he were!

He speaks, yet he says nothing. What of that?

His eye discourses; I will answer it.

I am too bold; 'tis not to me he speaks.

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do entreat his eyes

To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

What if his eyes were there, they in his head?

The brightness of his cheek would shame those stars

As daylight doth a lamp; his eyes in heaven

Would through the airy region stream so bright

That birds would sing and think it were not night.

See how he leans her cheek upon his hand!

O that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek!

Sher. Ay me!

Jim. He speaks.

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art

As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,

As is a winged messenger of heaven

Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes

Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him

When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds

And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Sher. O Jim, Jim! wherefore art thou Jim?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name!

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I'll no longer be a Holmes.

Jim. [ _aside_ ] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Sher. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.

Thou art thyself, though not a Moriarty.

What's Moriarty? it is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

So Jim would, were he not Jim call'd,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Jim, doff thy name;

And for that name, which is no part of thee,

Take all myself.

Jim. I take thee at thy word.

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;

Henceforth I never will be Jim.

Sher. What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night,

So stumblest on my counsel?

Jim. By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am.

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,

Because it is an enemy to thee.

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Sher. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words

Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound.

Art thou not Jim, and a Moriarty?

Jim. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

Sher. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?

The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,

And the place death, considering who thou art,

If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

Jim. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls;

For stony limits cannot hold love out,

And what love can do, that dares love attempt.

Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

Sher. If they do see thee, they will murther thee.

Jim. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye

Than twenty of their swords! Look thou but sweet,

And I am proof against their enmity.

Sher. I would not for the world they saw thee here.

Jim. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight;

And but thou love me, let them find me here.

My life were better ended by their hate

Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Sher. By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

Jim. By love, that first did prompt me to enquire.

He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far

As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea,

I would adventure for such merchandise.

Sher. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face;

Else would a rosy blush bepaint my cheek

For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.

Fain would I dwell on form- fain, fain deny

What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!

Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say 'Ay';

And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,

Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries,

They say Jove laughs. O gentle Jim,

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.

Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,

I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,

So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.

In truth, fair Moriarty, I am too fond,

And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light;

But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true

Than those that have more cunning to be strange.

I should have been more strange, I must confess,

But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,

My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me,

And not impute this yielding to light love,

Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Jim. Master, by yonder blessed moon I swear,

That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-

Sher. O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon,

That monthly changes in her circled orb,

part that thy love prove likewise variable.

Jim. What shall I swear by?

Sher. Do not swear at all;

Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,

Which is the god of my idolatry,

And I'll believe thee.

Jim. If my heart's dear love-

Sher. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,

I have no joy of this contract to-night.

It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden;

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be

Ere one can say 'It lightens.' Sweet, good night!

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,

May prove a beauteous flow'r when next we meet.

Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest

Come to thy heart as that within my breast!

Jim. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Sher. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

Jim. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.

Sher. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;

And yet I would it were to give again.

Jim. Would'st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?

Sher. But to be frank and give it thee again.

And yet I wish but for the thing I have.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite.

I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!

 _[Mrs Hudson] calls within._

Anon, good Mrs Hudson! Sweet Moriarty, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again. _[Exit.]_

Jim. O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,

Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

 _Enter Sherlock above._

Sher. Three words, dear Jim, and good night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,

By one that I'll procure to come to thee,

Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;

And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay

And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

Mrs Hudson. ( _within_ ) Master!

Sher. I come, anon.- But if thou meanest not well,

I do beseech thee-

Mrs Hudson. ( _within_ ) Master!

Sher. By-and-by I come.-

To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief.

To-morrow will I send.

Jim. So thrive my soul-

Sher. A thousand times good night! _Exit._

Jim. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!

Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books;

But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.

 _Enter Sherlock again, [above]._

Sher. Hist! Jim, hist! O for a falconer's voice

To lure this tassel-gentle back again!

Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud;

Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,

And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine

With repetition of my Jim's name.

Jim!

Jim. It is my soul that calls upon my name.

How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,

Like softest music to attending ears!

Sher. Jim!

Jim. My dear?

Sher. At what o'clock to-morrow

Shall I send to thee?

Jim. By the hour of nine.

Sher. I will not fail. 'Tis twenty years till then.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Jim. Let me stand here till thou remember it.

Sher. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,

Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

Jim. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,

Forgetting any other home but this.

Sher. 'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone-

And yet no farther than a wanton's bird,

That lets it hop a little from her hand,

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,

And with a silk thread plucks it back again,

So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Jim. I would I were thy bird.

Sher. Sweet, so would I.

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,

That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

 _[Exit.]_

Jim. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!

Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell,

His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.

 _Exit_

 **Scene III.**

Friar Laurence's cell.

 _Enter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a basket._

Friar. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,

Check'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light;

And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels

from forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.

Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye

The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,

I must up-fill this osier cage of ours

With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb.

What is her burying gave, that is her womb;

And from her womb children of divers kind

We sucking on her natural bosom find;

Many for many virtues excellent,

None but for some, and yet all different.

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities;

For naught so vile that on the earth doth live

But to the earth some special good doth give;

Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,

And vice sometime's by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this small flower

Poison hath residence, and medicine power;

For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings encamp them still

In man as well as herbs- grace and rude will;

And where the worser is predominant,

Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

 _Enter Jim._

Jim. Good morrow, father.

Friar. Benedicite!

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Young son, it argues a distempered head

So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.

Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,

And where care lodges sleep will never lie;

But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain

Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Therefore thy earliness doth me assure

Thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature;

Or if not so, then here I hit it right-

Our Jim hath not been in bed to-night.

Jim. That last is true-the sweeter rest was mine.

Friar. God pardon sin! Wast thou with Irene?

Jim. With Irene, my ghostly father? No.

I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

Friar. That's my good son! But where hast thou been then?

Jim. I'll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.

I have been feasting with mine enemy,

Where on a sudden one hath wounded me

That's by me wounded. Both our remedies

Within thy help and holy physic lies.

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,

My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Jim. Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set

On the fair son of rich Holmes;

As mine on his, so his is set on mine,

And all combin'd, save what thou must combine

By holy marriage. When, and where, and how

We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,

I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,

That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here!

Is Irene, that thou didst love so dear,

So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies

Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.

Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine

Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Irene!

How much salt water thrown away in waste,

To season love, that of it doth not taste!

The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,

Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears.

Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit

Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.

If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,

Thou and these woes were all for Irene.

And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then:

Women may fall when there's no strength in men.

Jim. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Irene.

Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

Jim. And bad'st me bury love.

Friar. Not in a grave

To lay one in, another out to have.

Jim. I pray thee chide not. He whom I love now

Doth grace for grace and love for love allow.

The other did not so.

Friar. O, she knew well

Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.

But come, young waverer, come go with me.

In one respect I'll thy assistant be;

For this alliance may so happy prove

To turn your households' rancour to pure love.

Jim. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste.

Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.

 _Exeunt._

 **Scene IV.**

A street.

 _Enter Anderson and Moran._

Moran. Where the devil should this Jim be?

Came he not home to-night?

And. Not to his father's. I spoke with his man.

Moran. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Irene,

Torments him so that he will sure run mad.

And. John, the kinsman to old Holmes,

Hath sent a letter to his father's house.

Moran. A challenge, on my life.

And. Jim will answer it.

Moran. Any man that can write may answer a letter.

And. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares,

being dared.

Moran. Alas, poor Jim, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white

wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the

very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's

butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter John?

And. Why, what is John?

Moran. More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. O, he's the

courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing

pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his

minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! the very

butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman

of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the

immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay.

And. The what?

Moran. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes-

these new tuners of accent! 'By Jesu, a very good blade! a very

tall man! a very good whore!' Why, is not this a lamentable thing,

grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange

flies, these fashion-Morgers, these pardona-mi's, who stand

so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old

bench? O, their bones, their bones!

 _Enter Jim._

And. Here comes Jim! here comes Jim!

Moran. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how

art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch

flowed in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she

had a better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy,

Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or so,

but not to the purpose. Signior Jim, bon jour! There's a French

salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit

fairly last night.

Jim. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

Moran. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive?

Jim. Pardon, good Moran. My business was great, and in such a

case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

Moran. That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a

man to bow in the hams.

Jim. Meaning, to cursy.

Moran. Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Jim. A most courteous exposition.

Moran. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Jim. Pink for flower.

Moran. Right.

Jim. Why, then is my pump well-flower'd.

Moran. Well said! Follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out

thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may

remain, after the wearing, solely singular.

Jim. O single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness!

Moran. Come between us, good Anderson! My wits faint.

Jim. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs! or I'll cry a match.

Moran. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for

thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am

sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose?

Jim. Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not

there for the goose.

Moran. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Jim. Nay, good goose, bite not!

Moran. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.

Jim. And is it not, then, well serv'd in to a sweet goose?

Moran. O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch

narrow to an ell broad!

Jim. I stretch it out for that word 'broad,' which, added to

the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.

Moran. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now

art thou sociable, now art thou Jim; now art thou what thou art, by

art as well as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a

great natural that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in

a hole.

And. Stop there, stop there!

Moran. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.

And. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.

Moran. O, thou art deceiv'd! I would have made it short; for I

was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to

occupy the argument no longer.

Jim. Here's goodly gear!

 _Enter Mrs Hudson and her Girl [Molly]._

Moran. A sail, a sail!

And. Two, two! a shirt and a smock.

Mrs Hudson. Molly!

Molly. Anon.

Mrs Hudson. My fan, Molly.

Moran. Good Molly, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face of

the two.

Mrs Hudson. God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

Moran. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.

Mrs Hudson. Is it good-den?

Moran. 'Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is

now upon the prick of noon.

Mrs Hudson. Out upon you! What a man are you!

Jim. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.

Mrs Hudson. By my troth, it is well said. 'For himself to mar,'

quoth 'a? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the

young Jim?

Jim. I can tell you; but young Jim will be older when you

have found him than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest

of that name, for fault of a worse.

Mrs Hudson. You say well.

Moran. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i' faith! wisely,

wisely.

Mrs Hudson. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.

And. She will endite him to some supper.

Moran. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!

Jim. What hast thou found?

Moran. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is

something stale and hoar ere it be spent

 _He walks by them and sings_.

An old hare hoar,

And an old hare hoar,

Is very good meat in Lent;

But a hare that is hoar

Is too much for a score

When it hoars ere it be spent.

Jim, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither.

Jim. I will follow you.

Moran. Farewell, ancient lady. Farewell,

 _[sings]_ lady, lady, lady.

 _Exeunt Moran, Anderson._

Mrs Hudson. Marry, farewell! I Pray you, Sir, what saucy merchant

was this that was so full of his ropery?

Jim. A gentleman, Mrs Hudson, that loves to hear himself talk and

will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.

Mrs Hudson. An 'a speak anything against me, I'll take him down, an

'a

were lustier than he is, and twenty such jacks; and if I cannot,

I'll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his

flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must

stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure!

Molly. I saw no man use you at his pleasure. If I had, my

weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as

soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the

law on my side.

Mrs Hudson. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me

quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word; and, as I told you,

my young master bid me enquire you out. What he bid me say, I

will keep to ; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead

him into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of

behaviour, as they say; for the gentleman is young; and

therefore, if you should deal double with him, truly it were

an ill thing to be off'red to any gentleman, and very weak dealing.

Jim. Mrs Hudson, commend me to thy master and mistress. I protest unto

thee-

Mrs Hudson. Good heart, and I faith I will tell him as much. Lord,

Lord! he will be a joyful man.

Jim. What wilt thou tell him, Mrs Hudson? Thou dost not mark me.

Mrs Hudson. I will tell him, sir, that you do protest, which, as I

take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.

Jim. Bid him devise

Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;

And there he shall at Friar Laurence' cell

Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains.

Mrs Hudson. No, truly, sir; not a penny.

Jim. Go to! I say you shall.

Mrs Hudson. This afternoon, sir? Well, he shall be there.

Jim. And stay, good Mrs Hudson, behind the abbey wall.

Within this hour my man shall be with thee

And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,

Which to the high topgallant of my joy

Must be my convoy in the secret night.

Farewell. Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains.

Farewell. Commend me to thy master.

Mrs Hudson. Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.

Jim. What say'st thou, my dear Mrs Hudson?

Mrs Hudson. Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say,

Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

Jim. I warrant thee my man's as true as steel.

Mrs Hudson. Well, sir, my master is the sweetest gentleman. Lord, Lord!

when 'twas a little prating thing- O, there is a nobleman in

town, one Lestrade, that would fain lay knife aboard; but he,

good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I

anger him sometimes, and tell imr that Lestrade is the properer man;

but I'll warrant you, when I say so, he looks as pale as any

clout in the versal world. Doth not juniper and Jim begin both

with a letter?

Jim. Ay, Mrs Hudson; what of that? Both with an J.

Mrs Hudson. Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. J is for the- No; I

know it begins with some other letter; and she hath the prettiest

sententious of it, of you and juniper, that it would do you

good to hear it.

Jim. Commend me to thy master.

Mrs Hudson. Ay, a thousand times. [ _Exit Jim._ ] Molly!

Molly. Anon.

Mrs Hudson. Molly, take my fan, and go before, and apace.

 _Exeunt_.

 **Scene V.**

Holmes's orchard.

 _Enter Sherlock_.

Sher. The clock struck nine when I did send the Mrs Hudson;

In half an hour she 'promis'd to return.

Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so.

O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts,

Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams

Driving back shadows over low'ring hills.

Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love,

And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.

Now is the sun upon the highmost hill

Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve

Is three long hours; yet she is not come.

Had she affections and warm youthful blood,

She would be as swift in motion as a ball;

My words would bandy her to my sweet love,

And his to me,

But old folks, many feign as they were dead-

Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

 _Enter Mrs Hudson [and Molly]._

O God, she comes! O honey Mrs Hudson, what news?

Hast thou met with him? Send thy girl away.

Mrs Hudson. Molly, stay at the gate.

 _[Exit Molly.]_

Sher. Now, good sweet Mrs Hudson- O Lord, why look'st thou sad?

Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;

If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news

By playing it to me with so sour a face.

Mrs Hudson. I am aweary, give me leave awhile.

Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had!

Sher. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news.

Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good Mrs Hudson, speak.

Mrs Hudson. Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile?

Do you not see that I am out of breath?

Sher. How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath

To say to me that thou art out of breath?

The excuse that thou dost make in this delay

Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.

Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that.

Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance.

Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?

Mrs Hudson. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to

choose a man. Jim? No, not he. Though his face be better

than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a

foot, and a body, though they be not to be talk'd on, yet

they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I'll

warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, sir; serve

God.

What, have you din'd at home?

Sher. No, no. But all this did I know before.

What says he of our marriage? What of that?

Mrs Hudson. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I!

It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.

My back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back!

Beshrew your heart for sending me about

To catch my death with jauncing up and down!

Sher. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.

Sweet, sweet, Sweet Mrs Hudson, tell me, what says my love?

Mrs Hudson. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous,

and a kind, and a handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where

is your mother?

Sher. Where is my mother? Why, she is within.

Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!

'Your love says, like an honest gentleman,

"Where is your mother?"'

Mrs Hudson. O God's Lady dear!

Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow.

Is this the poultice for my aching bones?

Henceforward do your messages yourself.

Sher. Here's such a coil! Come, what says Jim?

Mrs Hudson. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?

Sher. I have.

Mrs Hudson. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell;

There stays a husband to make you a husband.

Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks:

They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.

Hie you to church; I must another way,

To fetch a ladder, by the which your love

Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark.

I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;

But you shall bear the burthen soon at night.

Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.

Sher. Hie to high fortune! Honest Mrs Hudson, farewell.

 _Exeunt._

 **Scene VI.**

Friar Laurence's cell.

 _Enter Friar [Laurence] and Jim._

Friar. So smile the heavens upon this holy act

That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!

Jim. Amen, amen! But come what sorrow can,

It cannot countervail the exchange of joy

That one short minute gives me in his sight.

Do thou but close our hands with holy words,

Then love-devouring death do what he dare-

It is enough I may but call him mine.

Friar. These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness

And in the taste confounds the apMollyite.

Therefore love moderately: long love doth so;

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

 _Enter Sherlock_.

Here comes the gentleman. O, so light a foot

Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint.

A lover may bestride the gossamer

That idles in the wanton summer air,

And yet not fall; so light is vanity.

Sher. Good even to my ghostly confessor.

Friar. Jim shall thank thee, child, for us both.

Sher. As much to him, else is his thanks too much.

Jim. Ah, Sherlock, if the measure of thy joy

Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more

To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath

This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue

Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both

Receive in either by this dear encounter.

Sher. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,

Brags of his substance, not of ornament.

They are but beggars that can count their worth;

But my true love is grown to such excess

cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.

Friar. Come, come with me, and we will make short work;

For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone

Till Holy Church incorporate two in one.

 _[Exeunt.]_

 **ACT III. Scene I.**

A public place.

 _Enter Moran, Anderson, and Men._

And. I pray thee, good Moran, let's retire.

The day is hot, the Holmess abroad.

And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,

For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

Moran. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters

the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and

says 'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the

second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.

And. Am I like such a fellow?

Moran. Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in

Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be

moved.

And. And what to?

Moran. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly,

for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a

man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast.

Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no

other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an

eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels

as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as

addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrell'd with a

man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog

that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a

tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, with

another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt

tutor me from quarrelling!

And. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should

buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.

Moran. The fee simple? O simple!

 _Enter John and others._

And. By my head, here come the Holmess.

Moran. By my heel, I care not.

John. Follow me close, for I will speak to them.

Gentlemen, good den. A word with one of you.

Moran. And but one word with one of us?

Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.

John. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me

occasion.

Moran. Could you not take some occasion without giving

John. Moran, thou consortest with Jim.

Moran. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make

minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my

fiddpartick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!

And. We talk here in the public haunt of men.

Either withdraw unto some private place

And reason coldly of your grievances,

Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us.

Moran. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.

I will not budge for no man's pleasure,

 _Enter Jim._

John. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man.

Moran. But I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery.

Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower!

Your worship in that sense may call him man.

John. Jim, the love I bear thee can afford

No better term than this: thou art a villain.

Jim. John, the reason that I have to love thee

Doth much excuse the appertaining rage

To such a greeting. Villain am I none.

Therefore farewell. I see thou knowest me not.

John. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries

That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.

Jim. I do protest I never injur'd thee,

But love thee better than thou canst devise

Till thou shalt know the reason of my love;

And so good Holmes, which name I tender

As dearly as mine own, be satisfied.

Moran. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!

Alla stoccata carries it away. _[Draws.]_

John, you ratcatcher, will you walk?

John. What wouldst thou have with me?

Moran. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives.

That I

mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter,

dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out

of his pitcher by the ears? Make haste, part mine be about your

ears ere it be out.

John. I am for you. _[Draws.]_

Jim. Gentle Moran, put thy rapier up.

Moran. Come, sir, your passado!

 _[They fight.]_

Jim. Draw, Anderson; beat down their weapons.

Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage!

John, Moran, Mycroft expressly hath

Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.

Hold, John! Good Moran!

 _John under Jim's arm thrusts Moran in, and flies_

 _[with his Followers]._

Moran. I am hurt.

A plague o' both your houses! I am sped.

Is he gone and hath nothing?

And. What, art thou hurt?

Moran. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, 'tis enough.

Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.

 _[Exit Page.]_

Jim. Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much.

Moran. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door;

but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you

shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this

world. A plague o' both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a

mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue,

a

villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil

came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.

Jim. I thought all for the best.

Moran. Help me into some house, Anderson,

Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses!

They have made worms' meat of me. I have it,

And soundly too. Your houses!

 _[Exit. [supported by Anderson]._

Jim. This gentleman, Mycroft's near ally,

My very friend, hath got this mortal hurt

In my behalf- my reputation stain'd

With John's slander- John, that an hour

Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Sherlock,

Thy beauty hath made me effeminate

And in my temper soft'ned valour's steel

 _Enter Anderson._

And. O Jim, Jim, brave Moran's dead!

That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds,

Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

Jim. This day's black fate on moe days doth depend;

This but begins the woe others must end.

 _Enter John._

And. Here comes the furious John back again.

Jim. Alive in triumph, and Moran slain?

Away to heaven respective lenity,

And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now!

Now, John, take the 'villain' back again

That late thou gavest me; for Moran's soul

Is but a little way above our heads,

Staying for thine to keep him company.

Either thou or I, or both, must go with him.

John. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,

Shalt with him hence.

Jim. This shall determine that.

 _They fight. John falls._

And. Jim, away, be gone!

The citizens are up, and John slain.

Stand not amaz'd. The Mycroft will doom thee death

If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!

Jim. O, I am fortune's fool!

And. Why dost thou stay?

 _Exit Jim._

 _Enter Citizens._

Citizen. Which way ran he that kill'd Moran?

John, that murtherer, which way ran he?

And. There lies that John.

Citizen. Up, sir, go with me.

I charge thee in the Mycroft's name obey.

 _Enter Mycroft [attended], Old Moriarty, Holmes, their Wives,_

 _and [others]._

Mycroft. Where are the vile beginners of this fray?

And. O noble Mycroft. I can discover all

The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.

There lies the man, slain by young Jim,

That slew thy kinsman, brave Moran.

Hol. Wife. John, my cousin! O my brother's child!

O Mycroft! O husband! O, the blood is spill'd

Of my dear kinsman! Mycroft, as thou art true,

For blood of ours shed blood of Moriarty.

O cousin, cousin!

Mycroft. Anderson, who began this bloody fray?

And. John, here slain, whom Jim's hand did stay.

Jim, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink

How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal

Your high displeasure. All this- uttered

With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd-

Could not take truce with the unruly spleen

Of John deaf to peace, but that he tilts

With piercing steel at bold Moran's breast;

Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,

And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats

Cold death aside and with the other sends

It back to John, whose dexterity

Retorts it. Jim he cries aloud,

'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue,

His agile arm beats down their fatal points,

And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm

An envious thrust from John hit the life

Of stout Moran, and then John fled;

But by-and-by comes back to Jim,

Who had but newly entertain'd revenge,

And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I

Could draw to part them, was stout John slain;

And, as he fell, did Jim turn and fly.

This is the truth, or let Anderson die.

Hol. Wife. He is a kinsman to the Moriartys;

Affection makes him false, he speaks not true.

Some twenty of them fought in this black strife,

And all those twenty could but kill one life.

I beg for justice, which thou, Mycroft, must give.

Jim slew John; Jim must not live.

Mycroft. Jim slew him; he slew Moran.

Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?

Mor. Not Jim, Mycroft; he was Moran's friend;

His fault concludes but what the law should end,

The life of John.

Mycroft. And for that offence

Immediately we do exile him hence.

I have an interest in your hate's proceeding,

My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding;

But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine

That you shall all repent the loss of mine.

I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;

Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.

Therefore use none. Let Jim hence in haste,

Else, when he is found, that hour is his last.

Bear hence this body, and attend our will.

Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

 _Exeunt_.

 **Scene II.**

Holmes's orchard.

 _Enter Sherlock alone._

Sher. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phoebus' lodging! Such a wagoner

As Phaeton would whip you to the West

And bring in cloudy night immediately.

Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,

That runaway eyes may wink, and Jim

Leap to these arms untalk'd of and unseen.

Lovers can see to do their amorous rites

By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,

It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,

Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,

And learn me how to lose a winning match,

Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.

Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,

With thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold,

Think true love acted simple modesty.

Come, night; come, Jim; come, thou day in night;

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.

Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night;

Give me my Jim; and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

O, I have bought the mansion of a love,

But not possess'd it; and though I am sold,

Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day

As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child that hath new robes

And may not wear them. O, here comes Mrs Hudson,

 _Enter Mrs Hudson, with cords._

And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks

But Jim's name speaks heavenly eloquence.

Now, Mrs Hudson, what news? What hast thou there? the cords

That Jim bid thee fetch?

Mrs Hudson. Ay, ay, the cords.

 _[Throws them down.]_

Sher. Ay me! what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands

Mrs Hudson. Ah, weraday! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!

We are undone, lady, we are undone!

Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!

Sher. Can heaven be so envious?

Mrs Hudson. Jim can,

Though heaven cannot. O Jim, Jim!

Who ever would have thought it? Jim!

Sher. What devil art thou that dost torment me thus?

This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell.

Hath Jim slain himself? Say thou but 'I,'

And that bare vowel 'I' shall poison more

Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.

I am not I, if there be such an 'I';

Or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'I.'

If be be slain, say 'I'; or if not, 'no.'

Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.

Mrs Hudson. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,

(God save the mark!) here on his manly breast.

A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;

Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood,

All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.

Sher. O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once!

To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty!

Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here,

And thou and Jim press one heavy bier!

Mrs Hudson. O John, John, the best friend I had!

O courteous John! honest gentleman

That ever I should live to see thee dead!

Sher. What storm is this that blows so contrary?

Is Jim slaught'red, and is John dead?

My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord?

Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!

For who is living, if those two are gone?

Mrs Hudson. John is gone, and Jim banished;

Jim that kill'd him, he is banished.

Sher. O God! Did Jim's hand shed John's blood?

Mrs Hudson. It did, it did! alas the day, it did!

Sher. O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face!

Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?

Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!

Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!

Despised substance of divinest show!

Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st-

A damned saint, an honourable villain!

O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell

When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend

In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?

Was ever book containing such vile matter

So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell

In such a gorgeous palace!

Mrs Hudson. There's no trust,

No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd,

All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.

Ah, where's my girl? Give me some aqua vitae.

These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.

Shame come to Jim!

Sher. Blister'd be thy tongue

For such a wish! He was not born to shame.

Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit;

For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd

Sole monarch of the universal earth.

O, what a beast was I to chide at him!

Mrs Hudson. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin?

Sher. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?

Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name

When I, thy three-hours husband, have mangled it?

But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?

That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband.

Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring!

Your tributary drops belong to woe,

Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.

My husband lives, that John would have slain;

And John's dead, that would have slain my husband.

All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?

Some word there was, worser than John's death,

That murd'red me. I would forget it fain;

But O, it presses to my memory

Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds!

'John is dead, and Jim- banished.'

That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,'

Hath slain ten thousand Johns. John's death

Was woe enough, if it had ended there;

Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship

And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,

Why followed not, when she said 'John's dead,'

Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,

Which modern lamentation might have mov'd?

But with a rearward following John's death,

'Jim is banished'- to speak that word

Is father, mother, John, Jim, Sherlock,

All slain, all dead. 'Jim is banished'-

There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,

In that word's death; no words can that woe sound.

Where is my father and my mother, Mrs Hudson?

Mrs Hudson. Weeping and wailing over John's corpse.

Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Sher. Wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent,

When theirs are dry, for Jim's banishment.

Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd,

Both you and I, for Jim is exil'd.

He made you for a highway to my bed;

But I, a boy, die a widower.

Come, cords; come, Mrs Hudson. I'll to my wedding bed;

And death, not Jim, take my maidenhead!

Mrs Hudson. Hie to your chamber. I'll find Jim

To comfort you. I wot well where he is.

Hark ye, your Jim will be here at night.

I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell.

Sher. O, find him! give this ring to my true knight

And bid him come to take his last farewell.

 _Exeunt_.

 **Scene III**.

Friar Laurence's cell.

 _Enter Friar [Laurence]._

Friar. Jim, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.

Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity.

 _Enter Jim._

Jim. Father, what news? What is Mycroft's doom

What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand

That I yet know not?

Friar. Too familiar

Is my dear son with such sour company.

I bring thee tidings of Mycroft's doom.

Jim. What less than doomsday is Mycroft's doom?

Friar. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips-

Not body's death, but body's banishment.

Jim. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say 'death';

For exile hath more terror in his look,

Much more than death. Do not say 'banishment.'

Friar. Hence from Verona art thou banished.

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

Jim. There is no world without Verona walls,

But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

Hence banished is banish'd from the world,

And world's exile is death. Then 'banishment'

Is death misterm'd. Calling death 'banishment,'

Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe

And smipart upon the stroke that murders me.

Friar. O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!

Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Mycroft,

Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law,

And turn'd that black word death to banishment.

This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.

Jim. 'Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here,

Where Sherlock lives; and every cat and dog

And little mouse, every unworthy thing,

Live here in heaven and may look on her;

But Jim may not. More validity,

More honourable state, more courtship lives

In carrion flies than Jim. They may seize

On the white wonder of dear Sherlock's hand

And steal immortal blessing from his lips,

Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,

Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;

But Jim may not- he is banished.

This may flies do, when I from this must fly;

They are free men, but I am banished.

And sayest thou yet that exile is not death?

Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife,

No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean,

But 'banished' to kill me- 'banished'?

O friar, the damned use that word in hell;

Howling attends it! How hast thou the heart,

Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,

A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd,

To mangle me with that word 'banished'?

Friar. Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak.

Jim. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.

Friar. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word;

Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,

To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Jim. Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy!

Unless philosophy can make a Sherlock,

Displant a town, reverse a Mycroft's doom,

It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more.

Friar. O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

Jim. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?

Friar. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Jim. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.

Wert thou as young as I, Sherlock thy love,

An hour but married, John murdered,

Doting like me, and like me banished,

Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,

And fall upon the ground, as I do now,

Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

 _Knock [within]._

Friar. Arise; one knocks. Good Jim, hide thyself.

Jim. Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans,

Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. _Knock_.

Friar. Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Jim, arise;

Thou wilt be taken.- Stay awhile!- Stand up; _Knock._

Run to my study.- By-and-by!- God's will,

What simpleness is this.- I come, I come! _Knock._

Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will

Mrs Hudson. [within] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.

I come from Lord Sherlock.

Friar. Welcome then.

 _Enter Mrs Hudson._

Mrs Hudson. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar

Where is my lord's lord, where's Jim?

Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

Mrs Hudson. O, he is even in my master's case,

Just in his case!

Friar. O woeful sympathy!

Piteous predicament!

Mrs Hudson. Even so lies he,

Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering.

Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man.

For Sherlock's sake, for his sake, rise and stand!

Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Jim. ( _rises_ ) Mrs Hudson-

Mrs Hudson. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of all.

Jim. Spakest thou of Sherlock? How is it with him?

Doth not she think me an old murtherer,

Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy

With blood remov'd but little from his own?

Where is he? and how doth he! and what says

My conceal'd lord to our cancell'd love?

Mrs Hudson. O, he says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;

And now falls on his bed, and then starts up,

And John calls; and then on Jim cries,

And then down falls again.

Jim. As if that name,

Shot from the deadly level of a gun,

Did murther him; as that name's cursed hand

Murder'd his kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me,

In what vile part of this anatomy

Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack

The hateful mansion. [ _Draws his dagger_.]

Friar. Hold thy desperate hand.

Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art;

Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote

The unreasonable fury of a beast.

Unseemly woman in a seeming man!

Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!

Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order,

I thought thy disposition better temper'd.

Hast thou slain John? Wilt thou slay thyself?

And slay thy lord that in thy life lives,

By doing damned hate upon thyself?

Why raipart thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?

Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet

In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.

Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit,

Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all,

And usest none in that true use indeed

Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.

Thy noble shape is but a form of wax

Digressing from the valour of a man;

Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury,

Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish;

Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,

Misshapen in the conduct of them both,

Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask,

is get afire by thine own ignorance,

And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence.

What, rouse thee, man! Thy Sherlock is alive,

For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.

There art thou happy. John would kill thee,

But thou slewest John. There art thou happy too.

The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend

And turns it to exile. There art thou happy.

A pack of blessings light upon thy back;

Happiness courts thee in her best array;

But, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench,

Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love.

Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed,

Ascend his chamber, hence and comfort him.

But look thou stay not till the watch be set,

For then thou canst not pass to Mantua,

Where thou shalt live till we can find a time

To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,

Beg pardon of Mycroft, and call thee back

With twenty hundred thousand times more joy

Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.

Go before, Mrs Hudson. Commend me to thy lord,

And bid him hasten all the house to bed,

Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.

Jim is coming.

Mrs Hudson. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night

To hear good counsel. O, what learning is!

My lord, I'll tell my lorder you will come.

Jim. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Mrs Hudson. Here is a ring he bid me give you, sir.

Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. _Exit._

Jim. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this!

Friar. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state:

Either be gone before the watch be set,

Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence.

Sojourn in Mantua. I'll find out your man,

And he shall signify from time to time

Every good hap to you that chances here.

Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. Farewell; good night.

Jim. But that a joy past joy calls out on me,

It were a grief so brief to part with thee.

Farewell.

 _Exeunt._

Scene IV.

Holmes's house

Enter Old Holmes, his Wife, and Lestrade.

Hol. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily

That we have had no time to move our son.

Look you, he lov'd his kinsman John dearly,

And so did I. Well, we were born to die.

'Tis very late; he'll not come down to-night.

I promise you, but for your company,

I would have been abed an hour ago.

Les. These times of woe afford no tune to woo.

Madam, good night. Commend me to your son.

Lady. I will, and know his mind early to-morrow;

To-night he's mew'd up to his heaviness.

Hol. Sir Lestrade, I will make a desperate tender

Of my child's love. I think he will be rul'd

In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.

Wife, go you to him ere you go to bed;

Acquaint him here of my son Lestrade's love

And bid him (mark you me?) on Wednesday next-

But, soft! what day is this?

Les. Monday, my lord.

Hol. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon.

Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell him

He shall be married to this noble earl.

Will you be ready? Do you like this haste?

We'll keep no great ado- a friend or two;

For hark you, John being slain so late,

It may be thought we held him carelessly,

Being our kinsman, if we revel much.

Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,

And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?

Les. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.

Hol. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then.

Go you to Sherlock ere you go to bed;

Prepare him, wife, against this wedding day.

Farewell, My lord.- Light to my chamber, ho!

Afore me, It is so very very late

That we may call it early by-and-by.

Good night.

Exeunt

Scene V.

Holmes's orchard.

Enter Jim and Sherlock aloft, at the Window.

Sher. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,

That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear.

Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Jim. It was the lark, the herald of the morn;

No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East.

Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Sher. Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I.

It is some meteor that the sun exhales

To be to thee this night a torchbearer

And light thee on the way to Mantua.

Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.

Jim. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death.

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,

'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;

Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat

The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.

I have more care to stay than will to go.

Come, death, and welcome! Sherlock wills it so.

How is't, my soul? Let's talk; it is not day.

Sher. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away!

It is the lark that sings so out of tune,

Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

Some say the lark makes sweet division;

This doth not so, for she divideth us.

Some say the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes;

O, now I would they had chang'd voices too,

Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,

Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day!

O, now be gone! More light and light it grows.

Jim. More light and light- more dark and dark our woes!

Enter Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson. Master!

Sher. Mrs Hudson?

Mrs Hudson. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber.

The day is broke; be wary, look about.

Sher. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

[Exit.]

Jim. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend.

He goeth down.

Sher. Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend?

I must hear from thee every day in the hour,

For in a minute there are many days.

O, by this count I shall be much in years

Ere I again behold my Jim!

Jim. Farewell!

I will omit no opportunity

That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Sher. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again?

Jim. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve

For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Sher. O God, I have an ill-divining soul!

Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,

As one dead in the bottom of a tomb.

Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.

Jim. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.

Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!

Exit.

Sher. O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle.

If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him

That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, Fortune,

For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long

But send him back.

Lady. [within] Ho, son! are you up?

Sher. Who is't that calls? It is my lady mother.

Is she not down so late, or up so early?

What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?

Enter Mother.

Lady. Why, how now, Sherlock?

Sher. Madam, I am not well.

Lady. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?

What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?

An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live.

Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of love;

But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Sher. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

Lady. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend

Which you weep for.

Sher. Feeling so the loss,

I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

Lady. Well, boy, thou weep'st not so much for his death

As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.

Sher. What villain, madam?

Lady. That same villain Jim.

Sher. [aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder.-

God pardon him! I do, with all my heart;

And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

Lady. That is because the traitor murderer lives.

Sher. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.

Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!

Lady. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.

Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua,

Where that same banish'd runagate doth live,

Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram

That he shall soon keep John company;

And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.

Sher. Indeed I never shall be satisfied

With Jim till I behold him- dead-

Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd.

Madam, if you could find out but a man

To bear a poison, I would temper it;

That Jim should, upon receipt thereof,

Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors

To hear him nam'd and cannot come to him,

To wreak the love I bore my cousin John

Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him!

Lady. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man.

But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, boy.

Sher. And joy comes well in such a needy time.

What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

Lady. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;

One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,

Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy

That thou expects not nor I look'd not for.

Sher. Madam, in happy time! What day is that?

Lady. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn

The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,

The Detective Lestrade, at Saint Peter's Church,

Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

Sher. Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Molly too,

He shall not make me there a joyful groom!

I wonder at this haste, that I must wed

Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.

I pray you tell my lord and father, madam,

I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear

It shall be Jim, whom you know I hate,

Rather than Lestrade. These are news indeed!

Lady. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself,

And see how be will take it at your hands.

Enter Holmes and Mrs Hudson.

Hol. When the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew,

But for the sunset of my brother's son

It rains downright.

How now? a conduit, boy? What, still in tears?

Evermore show'ring? In one little body

Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind:

For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,

Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is

Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs,

Who, raging with thy tears and they with them,

Without a sudden calm will overset

Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife?

Have you delivered to him our decree?

Lady. Ay, sir; but he will none, he gives you thanks.

I would the fool were married to his grave!

Hol. Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.

How? Will he none? Doth he not give us thanks?

Is he not proud? Doth he not count her blest,

Unworthy as he is, that we have wrought

So worthy a gentleman to be his bridegroom?

Sher. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have.

Proud can I never be of what I hate,

But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

Hol. How, how, how, how, choplogic? What is this?

'Proud'- and 'I thank you'- and 'I thank you not'-

And yet 'not proud'? Master minion you,

Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,

But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next

To go with Lestrade to Saint Peter's Church,

Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.

Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage!

You tallow-face!

Lady. Fie, fie! what, are you mad?

Sher. Good father, I beseech you on my knees,

Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Hol. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!

I tell thee what- get thee to church a Thursday

Or never after look me in the face.

Speak not, reply not, do not answer me!

My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest

That God had lent us but this only child;

But now I see this one is one too much,

And that we have a curse in having him.

Out on her, hilding!

Mrs Hudson. God in heaven bless him!

You are to blame, my lord, to rate him so.

Hol. And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue,

Good Prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go!

Mrs Hudson. I speak no treason.

Hol. O, God-i-god-en!

Mrs Hudson. May not one speak?

Hol. Peace, you mumbling fool!

Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl,

For here we need it not.

Lady. You are too hot.

Hol. God's bread I it makes me mad. Day, night, late, early,

At home, abroad, alone, in company,

Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been

To have him match'd; and having now provided

A gentleman of princely parentage,

Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,

Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,

Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man-

And then to have a wretched puling fool,

A whining mammet, in his fortune's tender,

To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love;

I am too young, I pray you pardon me'!

But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you.

Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.

Look to't, think on't; I do not use to jest.

Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:

An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;

An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,

For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,

Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.

Trust to't. Bethink you. I'll not be forsworn. Exit.

Sher. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds

That sees into the bottom of my grief?

O sweet my mother, cast me not away!

Delay this marriage for a month, a week;

Or if you do not, make the bridal bed

In that dim monument where John lies.

Lady. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word.

Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit.

Sher. O God!- O Mrs Hudson, how shall this be prevented?

My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.

How shall that faith return again to earth

Unless that husband send it me from heaven

By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.

Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems

Upon so soft a subject as myself!

What say'st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson. Faith, here it is.

Jim is banish'd; and all the world to nothing

That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you;

Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.

Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,

I think it best you married with the Detective.

O, he's a lovely gentleman!

Jim's a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,

Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye

As Lestrade hath. Beshrew my very heart,

I think you are happy in this second match,

For it excels your first; or if it did not,

Your first is dead- or 'twere as good he were

As living here and you no use of him.

Sher. Speak'st thou this from thy heart?

Mrs Hudson. And from my soul too; else beshrew them both.

Sher. Amen!

Mrs Hudson. What?

Sher. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.

Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell,

To make confession and to be absolv'd.

Mrs Hudson. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. Exit.

Sher. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!

Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,

Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue

Which she hath prais'd him with above compare

So many thousand times? Go, counsellor!

Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.

I'll to the friar to know his remedy.

If all else fail, myself have power to die. Exit.

ACT IV. Scene I.

Friar Laurence's cell.

Enter Friar, [Laurence] and Detective Lestrade.

Friar. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short.

Les. My father Holmes will have it so,

And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

Friar. You say you do not know the gentleman's mind.

Uneven is the course; I like it not.

Les. Immoderately he weeps for John's death,

And therefore have I little talk'd of love;

For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.

Now, sir, his father counts it dangerous

That he do give his sorrow so much sway,

And in his wisdom hastes our marriage

To stop the inundation of his tears,

Which, too much minded by himself alone,

May be put from him by society.

Now do you know the reason of this haste.

Friar. [aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.-

Look, sir, here comes the gentleman toward my cell.

Enter Sherlock.

Les. Happily met, my master and my groom!

Sher. That may be, sir, when I may be a groom.

Les. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.

Sher. What must be shall be.

Friar. That's a certain text.

Les. Come you to make confession to this father?

Sher. To answer that, I should confess to you.

Les. Do not deny to him that you love me.

Sher. I will confess to you that I love him.

Les. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.

Sher. If I do so, it will be of more price,

Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.

Les. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears.

Sher. The tears have got small victory by that,

For it was bad enough before their spite.

Les. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report.

Sher. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;

And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

Les. Thy face is mine, and thou hast sland'red it.

Sher. It may be so, for it is not mine own.

Are you at leisure, holy father, now,

Or shall I come to you at evening mass

Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive child, now.

My lord, we must entreat the time alone.

Les. God shield I should disturb devotion!

Sherlock, on Thursday early will I rouse ye.

Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit.

Sher. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so,

Come weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help!

Friar. Ah, Sherlock, I already know thy grief;

It strains me past the compass of my wits.

I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,

On Thursday next be married to this Detective.

Sher. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this,

Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it.

If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help,

Do thou but call my resolution wise

And with this knife I'll help it presently.

God join'd my heart and Jim's, thou our hands;

And ere this hand, by thee to Jim's seal'd,

Shall be the label to another deed,

Or my true heart with treacherous revolt

Turn to another, this shall slay them both.

Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time,

Give me some present counsel; or, behold,

'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife

Shall play the empire, arbitrating that

Which the commission of thy years and art

Could to no issue of true honour bring.

Be not so long to speak. I long to die

If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.

Friar. Hold, child. I do spy a kind of hope,

Which craves as desperate an execution

As that is desperate which we would prevent.

If, rather than to marry Detective Lestrade

Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,

Then is it likely thou wilt undertake

A thing like death to chide away this shame,

That cop'st with death himself to scape from it;

And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy.

Sher. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Lestrade,

from off the battlements of yonder tower,

Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk

Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears,

Or shut me nightly in a charnel house,

O'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones,

With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls;

Or bid me go into a new-made grave

And hide me with a dead man in his shroud-

Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble-

And I will do it without fear or doubt,

To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love.

Friar. Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent

To marry Lestrade. Wednesday is to-morrow.

To-morrow night look that thou lie alone;

Let not the Mrs Hudson lie with thee in thy chamber.

Take thou this vial, being then in bed,

And this distilled liquor drink thou off;

When presently through all thy veins shall run

A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse

Shall keep his native progress, but surcease;

No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest;

The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade

To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall

Like death when he shuts up the day of life;

Each part, depriv'd of supple government,

Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death;

And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death

Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours,

And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.

Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes

To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.

Then, as the manner of our country is,

In thy best robes uncovered on the bier

Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault

Where all the kindred of the Holmess lie.

In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,

Shall Jim by my letters know our drift;

And hither shall he come; and he and I

Will watch thy waking, and that very night

Shall Jim bear thee hence to Mantua.

And this shall free thee from this present shame,

If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear

Abate thy valour in the acting it.

Sher. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear!

Friar. Hold! Get you gone, be strong and prosperous

In this resolve. I'll send a friar with speed

To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.

Sher. Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford.

Farewell, dear father.

Exeunt.

Scene II.

Holmes's house.

Enter Father Holmes, Mother, Mrs Hudson, and Servingmen,

two or three.

Hol. So many guests invite as here are writ.

[Exit a Servingman.]

Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if they can

lick their fingers.

Hol. How canst thou try them so?

Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own

fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not

with me.

Hol. Go, begone.

Exit Servingman.

We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time.

What, is my child gone to Friar Laurence?

Mrs Hudson. Ay, forsooth.

Hol. Well, be may chance to do some good on him.

A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is.

Enter Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson. See where he comes from shrift with merry look.

Hol. How now, my headstrong? Where have you been gadding?

Sher. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin

Of disobedient opposition

To you and your behests, and am enjoin'd

By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here

To beg your pardon. pardon, I beseech you!

Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you.

Hol. Send for the Detective. Go tell him of this.

I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.

Sher. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell

And gave him what becomed love I might,

Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.

Hol. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up.

This is as't should be. Let me see the Detective.

Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.

Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar,

All our whole city is much bound to him.

Sher. Mrs Hudson, will you go with me into my closet

To help me sort such needful ornaments

As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow?

Mother. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough.

Hol. Go, Mrs Hudson, go with him. We'll to church to-morrow.

Exeunt Sherlock and Mrs Hudson.

Mother. We shall be short in our provision.

'Tis now near night.

Hol. Tush, I will stir about,

And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.

Go thou to Sherlock, help to deck up him.

I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone.

I'll play the housewife for this once. What, ho!

They are all forth; well, I will walk myself

To Detective Lestrade, to prepare him up

Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light,

Since this same wayward lad is so reclaim'd.

Exeunt.

Scene III.

Sherlock's chamber.

Enter Sherlock and Mrs Hudson.

Sher. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle Mrs Hudson,

I pray thee leave me to myself to-night;

For I have need of many orisons

To move the heavens to smile upon my state,

Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin.

Enter Mother.

Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?

Sher. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries

As are behooffull for our state to-morrow.

So please you, let me now be left alone,

And let the Mrs Hudson this night sit up with you;

For I am sure you have your hands full all

In this so sudden business.

Mother. Good night.

Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.

Exeunt [Mother and Mrs Hudson.]

Sher. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.

I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins

That almost freezes up the heat of life.

I'll call them back again to comfort me.

Mrs Hudson!- What should she do here?

My dismal scene I needs must act alone.

Come, vial.

What if this mixture do not work at all?

Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?

No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.

Lays down a dagger.

What if it be a poison which the friar

Subtilly hath minist'red to have me dead,

part in this marriage he should be dishonour'd

Because he married me before to Jim?

I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not,

For he hath still been tried a holy man.

I will not entertain so bad a thought.

How if, when I am laid into the tomb,

I wake before the time that Jim

Come to redeem me? There's a fearful point!

Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,

And there die strangled ere my Jim comes?

Or, if I live, is it not very like

The horrible conceit of death and night,

Together with the terror of the place-

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle

Where for this many hundred years the bones

Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd;

Where bloody John, yet but green in earth,

Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say,

At some hours in the night spirits resort-

Alack, alack, is it not like that I,

So early waking- what with loathsome smells,

And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,

That living mortals, hearing them, run mad-

O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,

Environed with all these hideous fears,

And madly play with my forefathers' joints,

And pluck the mangled John from his shroud.,

And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone

As with a club dash out my desp'rate brains?

O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost

Seeking out Jim, that did spit his body

Upon a rapier's point. Stay, John, stay!

Jim, I come! this do I drink to thee.

She [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains.

Scene IV.

Holmes's house.

Enter Lady of the House and Mrs Hudson.

Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Enter Old Holmes.

Hol. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd,

The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock.

Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica;

Spare not for cost.

Mrs Hudson. Go, you cot-quean, go,

Get you to bed! Faith, you'll be sick to-morrow

For this night's watching.

Hol. No, not a whit. What, I have watch'd ere now

All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick.

Lady. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;

But I will watch you from such watching now.

Exeunt Lady and Mrs Hudson.

Hol. A jealous hood, a jealous hood!

Enter three or four [Fellows, with spits and logs and baskets.

What is there? Now, fellow,

Fellow. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.

Hol. Make haste, make haste. [Exit Fellow.] Sirrah, fetch drier

logs.

Call Molly; she will show thee where they are.

Fellow. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs

And never trouble Molly for the matter.

Hol. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!

Thou shalt be loggerhead. [Exit Fellow.] Good faith, 'tis day.

The Detective will be here with music straight,

For so he said he would. Play music.

I hear him near.

Mrs Hudson! Wife! What, ho! What, Mrs Hudson, I say!

Enter Mrs Hudson.

Go waken Sherlock; go and trim him up.

I'll go and chat with Lestrade. Hie, make haste,

Make haste! The bridegroom he is come already:

Make haste, I say.

[Exeunt.]

Scene V.

Sherlock's chamber.

[Enter Mrs Hudson.]

Mrs Hudson. Master! what, master! Sherlock! Fast, I warrant him, he.

Why, lamb! why, lord! Fie, you slug-abed!

Why, love, I say! master! sweetheart! Why, groom!

What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now!

Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,

The Detective Lestrade hath set up his rest

That you shall rest but little. God forgive me!

Marry, and amen. How sound is he asleep!

I needs must wake him. Master, master, master!

Ay, let the Detective take you in your bed!

He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be?

[Draws aside the curtains.]

What, dress'd, and in your clothes, and down again?

I must needs wake you. Lord! lord! lord!

Alas, alas! Help, help! My lord's dead!

O weraday that ever I was born!

Some aqua-vitae, ho! My lord! my lady!

Enter Mother.

Mother. What noise is here?

Mrs Hudson. O lamentable day!

Mother. What is the matter?

Mrs Hudson. Look, look! O heavy day!

Mother. O me, O me! My child, my only life!

Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!

Help, help! Call help.

Enter Father.

Father. For shame, bring Sherlock forth; his lord is come.

Mrs Hudson. He's dead, deceas'd; he's dead! Alack the day!

Mother. Alack the day, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!

Hol. Ha! let me see him. Out alas! he's cold,

His blood is settled, and his joints are stiff;

Life and these lips have long been separated.

Death lies on him like an untimely frost

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Mrs Hudson. O lamentable day!

Mother. O woful time!

Hol. Death, that hath ta'en him hence to make me wail,

Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.

Enter Friar [Laurence] and the Detective [Lestrade], with Musicians.

Friar. Come, is the groom ready to go to church?

Hol. Ready to go, but never to return.

O son, the night before thy wedding day

Hath Death lain with thy husband. See, there he lies,

Flower as he was, deflowered by him.

Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;

My child he hath wedded. I will die

And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death's.

Les. Have I thought long to see this morning's face,

And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Mother. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!

Most miserable hour that e'er time saw

In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!

But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,

But one thing to rejoice and solace in,

And cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight!

Mrs Hudson. O woe? O woful, woful, woful day!

Most lamentable day, most woful day

That ever ever I did yet behold!

O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!

Never was seen so black a day as this.

O woful day! O woful day!

Les. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!

Most detestable Death, by thee beguil'd,

By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!

O love! O life! not life, but love in death

Hol. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!

Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now

To murther, murther our solemnity?

O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!

Dead art thou, dead! alack, my child is dead,

And with my child my joys are buried!

Friar. Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion's cure lives not

In these confusions. Heaven and yourself

Had part in this fair lad! now heaven hath all,

And all the better is it for the lad.

Your part in him you could not keep from death,

But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.

The most you sought was his promotion,

For 'twas your heaven he should be advanc'd;

And weep ye now, seeing he is advanc'd

Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?

O, in this love, you love your child so ill

That you run mad, seeing that he is well.

He's not well married that lives married long,

But he's best married that dies married young.

Dry up your tears and stick your rosemary

On this fair corse, and, as the custom is,

In all his best array bear him to church;

For though fond nature bids us all lament,

Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.

Hol. All things that we ordained festival

Turn from their office to black funeral-

Our instruments to melancholy bells,

Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;

Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;

Our wedding flowers serve for a buried corse;

And all things change them to the contrary.

Friar. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;

And go, Sir Lestrade. Every one prepare

To follow this fair corse unto his grave.

The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill;

Move them no more by crossing their high will.

Exeunt. Manent Musicians [and Mrs Hudson].

1\. Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.

Mrs Hudson. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up!

For well you know this is a pitiful case. [Exit.]

1\. Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

Enter Molly.

Molly. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'!

O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'

1\. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'',

Molly. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is

full of woe.' O, play me some merry dump to comfort me.

1\. Mus. Not a dump we! 'Tis no time to play now.

Molly. You will not then?

1\. Mus. No.

Molly. I will then give it you soundly.

1\. Mus. What will you give us?

Molly. No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the

minstrel.

1\. Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature.

Molly. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate.

I will carry no crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you

note me?

1\. Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us.

2\. Mus. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Molly. Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an

iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.

'When griping grief the heart doth wound,

And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

Then music with her silver sound'-

Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'?

What say you, Simon Catling?

1\. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Molly. Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck?

2\. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver.

Molly. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?

3\. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say.

Molly. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer. I will say for you. It

is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no

gold for sounding.

'Then music with her silver sound

With speedy help doth lend redress.' [Exit.

1\. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same?

2\. Mus. Hang her, Jack! Come, we'll in here, tarry for the

mourners, and stay dinner.

Exeunt.

ACT V. Scene I.

Mantua. A street.

Enter Jim.

Jim. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep

My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.

My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne,

And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit

Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.

I dreamt my lord came and found me dead

(Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!)

And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips

That I reviv'd and was an emperor.

Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,

When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!

Enter Jim's Man Balthasar, booted.

News from Verona! How now, Balthasar?

Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?

How doth my lord? Is my father well?

How fares my Sherlock? That I ask again,

For nothing can be ill if he be well.

Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.

His body sleeps in Holmes's monument,

And his immortal part with angels lives.

I saw him laid low in his kindred's vault

And presently took post to tell it you.

O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,

Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Jim. Is it e'en so? Then I defy you, stars!

Thou knowest my lodging. Get me ink and paper

And hire posthorses. I will hence to-night.

Man. I do beseech you, sir, have patience.

Your looks are pale and wild and do import

Some misadventure.

Jim. Tush, thou art deceiv'd.

Leave me and do the thing I bid thee do.

Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

Man. No, my good lord.

Jim. No matter. Get thee gone

And hire those horses. I'll be with thee straight.

Exit [Balthasar].

Well, Sherlock, I will lie with thee to-night.

Let's see for means. O mischief, thou art swift

To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!

I do remember an apothecary,

And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted

In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows,

Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks,

Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;

And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,

An alligator stuff'd, and other skins

Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves

A beggarly account of empty boxes,

Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,

Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses

Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.

Noting this penury, to myself I said,

'An if a man did need a poison now

Whose sale is present death in Mantua,

Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.'

O, this same thought did but forerun my need,

And this same needy man must sell it me.

As I remember, this should be the house.

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary!

Enter Apothecary.

Apoth. Who calls so loud?

Jim. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor.

Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have

A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear

As will disperse itself through all the veins

That the life-weary taker mall fall dead,

And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath

As violently as hasty powder fir'd

Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.

Apoth. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law

Is death to any he that utters them.

Jim. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness

And fearest to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,

Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,

Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back:

The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law;

The world affords no law to make thee rich;

Then be not poor, but break it and take this.

Apoth. My poverty but not my will consents.

Jim. I pay thy poverty and not thy will.

Apoth. Put this in any liquid thing you will

And drink it off, and if you had the strength

Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.

Jim. There is thy gold- worse poison to men's souls,

Doing more murther in this loathsome world,

Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.

Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh.

Come, cordial and not poison, go with me

To Sherlock's grave; for there must I use thee.

Exeunt.

Scene II.

Verona. Friar Laurence's cell.

Enter Friar Donovan to Friar Laurence.

Don. Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho!

Enter Friar Laurence.

Laur. This same should be the voice of Friar Donovan.

Welcome from Mantua. What says Jim?

Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.

Don. Going to find a barefoot brother out,

One of our order, to associate me

Here in this city visiting the sick,

And finding him, the searchers of the town,

Suspecting that we both were in a house

Where the infectious pestilence did reign,

Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth,

So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd.

Laur. Who bare my letter, then, to Jim?

Don. I could not send it- here it is again-

Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,

So fearful were they of infection.

Laur. Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,

The letter was not nice, but full of charge,

Of dear import; and the neglecting it

May do much danger. Friar Donovan, go hence,

Get me an iron crow and bring it straight

Unto my cell.

Don. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Exit.

Laur. Now, must I to the monument alone.

Within this three hours will fair Sherlock wake.

He will beshrew me much that Jim

Hath had no notice of these accidents;

But I will write again to Mantua,

And keep him at my cell till Jim come-

Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb! Exit.

Scene III.

Verona. A churchyard; in it the monument of the Holmess.

Enter Lestrade and his Page with flowers and [a torch].

Les. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and stand aloof.

Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.

Under yond yew tree lay thee all along,

Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground.

So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread

(Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves)

But thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,

As signal that thou hear'st something approach.

Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.

Page. [aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone

Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. [Retires.]

Les. Sweet flower, with flowers thy marital bed I strew

(O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones)

Which with sweet water nightly I will dew;

Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans.

The obsequies that I for thee will keep

Nightly shall be to strew, thy grave and weep.

Whistle Boy.

The boy gives warning something doth approach.

What cursed foot wanders this way to-night

To cross my obsequies and true love's rite?

What, with a torch? Muffle me, night, awhile. [Retires.]

Enter Jim, and Balthasar with a torch, a mattock,

and a crow of iron.

Jim. Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron.

Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning

See thou deliver it to my lord and father.

Give me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee,

Whate'er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof

And do not interrupt me in my course.

Why I descend into this bed of death

Is partly to behold my lord's face,

But chiefly to take thence from his dead finger

A precious ring- a ring that I must use

In dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone.

But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry

In what I farther shall intend to do,

By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint

And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.

The time and my intents are savage-wild,

More fierce and more inexorable far

Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Jim. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that.

Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow.

Bal. [aside] For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout.

His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [Retires.]

Jim. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,

Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth,

Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,

And in despite I'll cram thee with more food.

Jim opens the tomb.

Les. This is that banish'd haughty Moriarty

That murd'red my love's cousin- with which grief

It is supposed the fair creature died-

And here is come to do some villanous shame

To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.

Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Moriarty!

Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death?

Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee.

Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.

Jim. I must indeed; and therefore came I hither.

Good gentle youth, tempt not a desp'rate man.

Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone;

Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,

But not another sin upon my head

By urging me to fury. O, be gone!

By heaven, I love thee better than myself,

For I come hither arm'd against myself.

Stay not, be gone. Live, and hereafter say

A madman's mercy bid thee run away.

Les. I do defy thy, conjuration

And apprehend thee for a felon here.

Jim. Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!

They fight.

Page. O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.

[Exit. Lestrade falls.]

Les. O, I am slain! If thou be merciful,

Open the tomb, lay me with Sherlock. [Dies.]

Jim. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.

Moran's kinsman, noble Detective Lestrade!

What said my man when my betossed soul

Did not attend him as we rode? I think

He told me Lestrade should have married Sherlock.

Said he not so? or did I dream it so?

Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Sherlock

To think it was so? O, give me thy hand,

One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!

I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.

A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth,

For here lies Sherlock, and his beauty makes

This vault a feasting presence full of light.

Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.

[Lays him in the tomb.]

How oft when men are at the point of death

Have they been merry! which their keepers call

A lightning before death. O, how may I

Call this a lightning? O my love! my husband!

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,

Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

Thou art not conquer'd. Beauty's ensign yet

Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,

And death's pale flag is not advanced there.

John, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?

O, what more favour can I do to thee

Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain

To sunder his that was thine enemy?

Forgive me, cousin.' Ah, dear Sherlock,

Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe

That unsubstantial Death is amorous,

And that the lean abhorred monster keeps

Thee here in dark to be his paramour?

For fear of that I still will stay with thee

And never from this palace of dim night

Depart again. Here, here will I remain

With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here

Will I set up my everlasting rest

And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars

from this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!

Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you

The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss

A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavoury guide!

Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on

The dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark!

Here's to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary!

Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. Falls.

Enter Friar [Laurence], with lanthorn, crow, and spade.

Friar. Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night

Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who's there?

Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well.

Friar. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,

What torch is yond that vainly lends his light

To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,

It burneth in the Holmes' monument.

Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master,

One that you love.

Friar. Who is it?

Bal. Jim.

Friar. How long hath he been there?

Bal. Full half an hour.

Friar. Go with me to the vault.

Bal. I dare not, sir.

My master knows not but I am gone hence,

And fearfully did menace me with death

If I did stay to look on his intents.

Friar. Stay then; I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me.

O, much I fear some ill unthrifty thing.

Bal. As I did sleep under this yew tree here,

I dreamt my master and another fought,

And that my master slew him.

Friar. Jim!

Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains

The stony entrance of this sepulchre?

What mean these masterless and gory swords

To lie discolour'd by this place of peace? [Enters the tomb.]

Jim! O, pale! Who else? What, Lestrade too?

And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour

Is guilty of this lamentable chance! Sherlock stirs.

Sherlock rises.

Sher. O comfortable friar! where is my lord?

I do remember well where I should be,

And there I am. Where is my Jim?

Friar. I hear some noise. Lord, come from that nest

Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.

A greater power than we can contradict

Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.

Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;

And Lestrade too. Come, I'll dispose of thee

among a brotherhood of holy monks.

Stay not to question, for the watch is coming.

Come, go, good Sherlock. I dare no longer stay.

Sher. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.

Exit [Friar].

What's here? A cup, clos'd in my true love's hand?

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.

O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop

To help me after? I will kiss thy lips.

Haply some poison yet doth hang on them

To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him.]

Thy lips are warm!

Chief Watch. [within] Lead, boy. Which way?

Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger!

[Snatches Jim's dagger.]

This is thy sheath; there rest, and let me die.

Hee stabs himself and falls [on Jim's body].

Enter [Lestrade's] Boy and Watch.

Boy. This is the place. There, where the torch doth burn.

Chief Watch. 'the ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard.

Go, some of you; whoe'er you find attach.

[Exeunt some of the Watch.]

Pitiful sight! here lies the Detective slain;

And Sherlock bleeding, warm, and newly dead,

Who here hath lain this two days buried.

Go, tell Mycroft; run to the Holmes;

Raise up the Moriartys; some others search.

[Exeunt others of the Watch.]

We see the ground whereon these woes do lie,

But the true ground of all these piteous woes

We cannot without circumstance descry.

Enter [some of the Watch,] with Jim's Man [Balthasar].

2\. Watch. Here's Jim's man. We found him in the churchyard.

Chief Watch. Hold him in safety till Mycroft come hither.

Enter Friar [Laurence] and another Watchman.

3\. Watch. Here is a friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps.

We took this mattock and this spade from him

As he was coming from this churchyard side.

Chief Watch. A great suspicion! Stay the friar too.

Enter Mycroft [and Attendants].

Mycroft. What misadventure is so early up,

That calls our person from our morning rest?

Enter Holmes and his Wife [with others].

Hol. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?

Wife. The people in the street cry 'Jim,'

Some 'Sherlock,' and some 'Lestrade'; and all run,

With open outcry, toward our monument.

Mycroft. What fear is this which startles in our ears?

Chief Watch. Sovereign, here lies the Detective Lestrade slain;

And Jim dead; and Sherlock, dead before,

Warm and new kill'd.

Mycroft. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.

Chief Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Jim's man,

With instruments upon them fit to open

These dead men's tombs.

Hol. O heavens! O wife, look how our son bleeds!

This dagger hath mista'en, for, lo, his house

Is empty on the back of Moriarty,

And it missheathed in my son's bosom!

Wife. O me! this sight of death is as a bell

That warns my old age to a sepulchre.

Enter Moriarty [and others].

Mycroft. Come, Moriarty; for thou art early up

To see thy son and heir more early down.

Mor. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night!

Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath.

What further woe conspires against mine age?

Mycroft. Look, and thou shalt see.

Mor. O thou untaught! what manners is in this,

To press before thy father to a grave?

Mycroft. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,

Till we can clear these ambiguities

And know their spring, their head, their true descent;

And then will I be general of your woes

And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,

And let mischance be slave to patience.

Bring forth the parties of suspicion.

Friar. I am the greatest, able to do least,

Yet most suspected, as the time and place

Doth make against me, of this direful murther;

And here I stand, both to impeach and purge

Myself condemned and myself excus'd.

Mycroft. Then say it once what thou dost know in this.

Friar. I will be brief, for my short date of breath

Is not so long as is a tedious tale.

Jim, there dead, was husband to that Sherlock;

And he, there dead, that Jim's faithful husband,

I married them; and their stol'n marriage day

Was John's doomsday, whose untimely death

Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city;

For whom, and not for John, Sherlock pin'd.

You, to remove that siege of grief from him,

Betroth'd and would have married him perforce

To Detective Lestrade. Then comes he to me

And with wild looks bid me devise some mean

To rid him from this second marriage,

Or in my cell there would he kill himself.

Then gave I him (so tutored by my art)

A sleeping potion; which so took effect

As I intended, for it wrought on him

The form of death. Meantime I writ to Jim

That he should hither come as this dire night

To help to take him from his borrowed grave,

Being the time the potion's force should cease.

But he which bore my letter, Friar Donovan,

Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight

Return'd my letter back. Then all alone

At the prefixed hour of his waking

Came I to take him from her kindred's vault;

Meaning to keep him closely at my cell

Till I conveniently could send to Jim.

But when I came, some minute ere the time

Of his awaking, here untimely lay

The noble Lestrade and true Jim dead.

He wakes; and I entreated him come forth

And bear this work of heaven with patience;

But then a noise did scare me from the tomb,

And he, too desperate, would not go with me,

But, as it seems, did violence on himself.

All this I know, and to the marriage

Mrs Hudson is privy; and if aught in this

Miscarried by my fault, let my old life

Be sacrific'd, some hour before his time,

Unto the rigour of severest law.

Mycroft. We still have known thee for a holy man.

Where's Jim's man? What can he say in this?

Bal. I brought my master news of Sherlock's death;

And then in post he came from Mantua

To this same place, to this same monument.

This letter he early bid me give his father,

And threat'ned me with death, going in the vault,

If I departed not and left him there.

Mycroft. Give me the letter. I will look on it.

Where is the Detective's page that rais'd the watch?

Sirrah, what made your master in this place?

Boy. He came with flowers to strew his lord's grave;

And bid me stand aloof, and so I did.

Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb;

And by-and-by my master drew on him;

And then I ran away to call the watch.

Mycroft. This letter doth make good the friar's words,

Their course of love, the tidings of Sherlock's death;

And here he writes that he did buy a poison

Of a poor pothecary, and therewithal

Came to this vault to die, and lie with Sherlock.

Where be these enemies? Holmes, montage,

See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,

That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!

And I, for winking at you, discords too,

Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish'd.

Hol. O brother Moriarty, give me thy hand.

This is my son's jointure, for no more

Can I demand.

Mor. But I can give thee more;

For I will raise his Statue in pure gold,

That whiles Verona by that name is known,

There shall no figure at such rate be set

As that of true and faithful Sherlock.

Hol. As rich shall Jim's by his lord's lie-

Poor sacrifices of our enmity!

Mycroft. A glooming peace this morning with it brings.

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;

Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished;

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Sherlock and her Jim.

Exeunt omnes.

THE END


End file.
